A Constable of Ravens
by HarmonyLover
Summary: In which John and Mycroft both learn secrets, and in which Mycroft and Sherlock are a bit more than just the British Government and the world's only consulting detective. The ravens of the Tower of London are always on guard. Sherlock/John pre-slash or slash implied; magical realism; takes place between "The Hounds of Baskerville" and "The Reichenbach Fall."


**Disclaimer: **I do not own any part of _Sherlock_; it all belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, et al. I write these stories purely for enjoyment; no copyright infringement is intended.

**Author's Note:** In which John and Mycroft both learn secrets, and in which Mycroft and Sherlock are a bit more than just the British Government and the world's only consulting detective.

There were several inspirations for this little drabble/ficlet. The first was a Tumblr post about street magic. The second was a conversation about the difference between a constable and an unkindness of ravens. The third was two fics that I read several months ago: "Ravens" by Saathi1013, and its companion "Back," by wiggleofjudas. (Both are on AO3, though I don't know if they've been uploaded here.) I thought both were just beautiful.

This is really meant to take place somewhere after "The Hounds of Baskerville," but before "The Reichenbach Fall."

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><p><strong>A Constable of Ravens<strong>

As John emerged at the top of the steep and winding stone staircase, he saw Mycroft standing at the edge of the roof, partially obscured by the round wall of the large north-east tower he had just ascended. The ravens walked around the elder Holmes unconcernedly, as if he were simply part of the landscape, but they eyed John with baleful suspicion as he crossed the roof.

"You know, I didn't believe Sherlock when he told me," John said conversationally.

Mycroft obviously didn't miss the anger underneath John's bland tone and fake smile; his eyebrow went up as he took a puff of his cigarette. "Of course not. Why would you?"

Before John could reply, a raven landed on the wall directly beside Mycroft and fixed the British Government with its bright eyes. A series of caws issued from its beak, and to John's astonishment, Mycroft opened his mouth and cawed right back, the harsh sound as authoritative as his speaking voice. The raven cocked its head and then flew away in a rush of feathers.

"Jesus," John said, swallowing almost audibly. "You really are."

"Indeed," Mycroft said dryly. He gestured to the jet-black birds around them; there still were at least two dozen patrolling the roof. "Sherlock's irritating persistence in referring to me as the British government is more literal than most people imagine. To the ravens, to the ancient guardians of Britain, I am the personification of the realm they guard and protect."

"You Holmes brothers and your bloody secrets," John muttered. "Just when I thought things couldn't get any stranger."

"I am sure that Sherlock told you that his … skills … are not quite as specific as mine?" Mycroft inquired.

"As specific as embodying the British nation, you mean? Yes, he did," John said scathingly. "Not that I believed it. How was I supposed to believe that he was a Channeler? That he could sense power of just about any kind?"

"Any kind," Mycroft confirmed. "Physical, mental, magical, economic, electrical. It doesn't matter. Why do you suppose he used drugs, Dr. Watson? All of the input would have destroyed a mind less extraordinary than his."

John cringed internally at the thought of Sherlock having to channel more input than his incredibly formidable brain could handle. So many things made so much more sense, now - Sherlock's morbid fascination with the cabbie, his seemingly contradictory impulses when it came to Irene, his terrified and vicious reaction to the Baskerville drug. And oh, God, what John had read as attraction (mental or physical, it hardly mattered) to Jim Moriarty wasn't attraction at all, but recognition (and perhaps fear) of the immense power the consulting criminal wielded.

John stared Mycroft down with a steely gaze. "Tell me that Jim Moriarty doesn't know who you two are, what you can do. Tell me that isn't what he wants with Sherlock."

Mycroft took another long puff of his cigarette, and for the first time ever, John sensed a shade of

hesitation in his voice when he replied. "We don't believe he knows, no."

"But you're not sure," John pressed.

Another inhale. "No."

"Christ, Mycroft, if Moriarty finds out what Sherlock can do, what you can do, he will not be happy with just killing you both off," John snarled, his voice rising. "He'll want to use you. Indefinitely. He will keep you alive and he will make you suffer. He will make you use your powers to accomplish _his_ ends, not your own."

"Kindly do not insult my intelligence, John. I am aware," Mycroft said coolly, his mask back in place. "As is Sherlock. It is infinitely better to play this out on Moriarty's terms. He wants to beat my brother at his own game, best the only mind that compares to his own. So, we will let Moriarty's little scenario unfold in order to obscure the larger one."

Panic trickled through John as he saw the possible outcomes of that plan. He was no fool; he had been a soldier, and he knew how even the best-laid ambushes could go horribly wrong.

"So help me, Mycroft, I will not allow Sherlock to die," he said adamantly, his voice brooking no argument. "I don't know yet how I missed all of this, but I know your family secret now, and I am telling you, I will kill Moriarty myself before I will allow him to touch Sherlock."

"Your interference would be most unwise - though I do appreciate your loyalty to my brother," Mycroft acknowledged. "And as to how you missed it, Dr. Watson, you missed it because most people see what they want to see. As my brother has told you so often, you see but you do not observe."

"No," John contradicted him flatly. "I missed it because I was too busy trying to keep my own secret from the two most observant men in Britain."

Both of Mycroft's eyebrows went up as his usually keen assessment of John sharpened still further. "What do you mean?"

John smiled, a dangerous smile that Sherlock would have recognized immediately. He lifted his right hand, and small arcs of blue electricity began to dance between his fingertips.

"I mean," John said slowly, his smile widening as the lines of light grew stronger, "that even you and your brother occasionally miss the obvious."


End file.
